Staring after him, Gonko fingered the blade he’d pulled from his pocket for a moment, then he spat and set it down. Goshy made a beeping sound. Expressing mild disapproval, Gonko supposed, but the only one who knew for sure was Goshy.
Candlelight gleamed on the crystal ball’s surface like a single yellow eye. The clown leader placed his palm on the cool glass and muttered the word, ‘Jamie.’ The glass fogged up like someone inside it was blowing smoke at its smooth surface. Gonko’s watch said Jamie had fifteen minutes to go.
I’ll cut him a little slack, time-wise, Gonko thought, as he considered the young man. Beneath Jamie’s attempt to live a rational life where all was clearly marked and set in order, there was a wellspring of eccentric behaviour waiting to be tapped, which Jamie seemed instinctively at pains to keep from spilling over. It looked to be a daily battle. And the more fight he put up, the more impressive the results when the guy either temporarily cracked, or permanently bent. No one bends further than someone made of completely straight lines.
The glass cleared, and there was the new recruit. Gonko figured the stalking had put him within a hair’s-breadth of nervous breakdown, and he was pleased with the campaign; the timing had been perfect, and now the guy would be just about ripe. The other two clowns crowded in beside their leader and bent over the glass ball. Goshy gave a small toot, best signified as ‘Oo.’ There was no telling what it meant — perhaps a signal of recognition as the tall redheaded young man strode over the glass ball’s surface. ‘Hush, Goshy,’ said Doopy to his brother. ‘Goshy, hush. He’s starting.’
Queen Street Mall was packed with tourists enjoying the heat, and locals wishing they could escape it. The first load of Monday’s evening commuters were trudging to the train station in their suits and ties. At 4.02 there was a disturbance in the crowd and a hush came over Queen Street as people turned their heads. A noise sounded from the top of the mall, so loud and piercing it was only vaguely recognisable as a human scream. Directly after it, a cluster of explosive noises like machine gun fire came from the same direction. Everyone stared; at the top of the mall a cloud of grey smoke was drifting languidly skyward.
The scream came again, shrill and drawn out, filtering through the crowd: ‘There’s a BOMB! THERE’S A BOOOOOMMMMMBBBB!’
Five years with terrorism in the headlines had taken their toll; everyone froze and panic swept through the crowd like a ripple through water. The popping bangs continued. Two police jogged cautiously towards the smoke, hands on their belts. Suddenly, bursting through the shoppers, a tall thin redheaded and, most notably, naked man was pelting down the street in a gangly sprint. A thatch of red pubic hair sat just above his frantically wobbling penis. His stride was fit for a Monty Python sketch: knees raised in a kind of goose-step, taking leaps rather than strides, elbows flailing like wings. His face was hidden beneath a pillow case. He peered through its eye slits at the crowd around him, seeing only blurred shapes and obstacles as he charged past.
There was green paint on his chest, a backwards swastika. On his back, a smiley face. Sweat was causing the paint to run, and soon the symbols were reduced to a green smear. On his trail were three baffled policemen, middle-aged men who’d expected the day’s work would involve no more than a few shoplifters. They tried to keep up but, despite his bizarre stride, Jamie was fleet of foot. He swerved like a footballer between families, university students and Japanese tourists, who were aiming cameras at him. Jamie screeched again at the top of his lungs, ‘THERE’S A BOMB! THERE’S A BOMB!’
His pillow case slipped out of place and he was momentarily blinded. Without time to regret it, he plucked it from his head and left it to float gently to the pavement for the police to collect at their leisure. Over towards the casino the smoke was spreading out into an impressive grey fog. The pops and bangs reached a crescendo, then ceased.
There was no bomb. The pops and bangs came from fireworks he’d bought from an obscure shop in Fortitude Valley. After painting himself in a public toilet and stalking up Queen Street in nothing but a raincoat, he’d wrapped a thick roll of fireworks around one of the shrubs at the top of the mall. He had no idea if all this would impress the clowns, or even if they would somehow see it, but it was all he could think of. Were it not for the jolts his mind had received from the clowns’ harassment — Steve’s blood the last straw — he might have just called the police and saved himself some trouble.
But as he sprinted down the mall, the troubles of the last week were as good as gone. The adrenaline was like nothing he’d ever felt. His mind ticked over like a tape on fast-forward. He couldn’t feel the pavement beneath his pounding feet, the stretching muscles in his legs, or the slapping of his balls against his thighs. He felt like he could take off and fly.
Of course in the crowded mall he couldn’t keep this up forever. He came to a wall of people and saw no way through. He careered into two schoolgirls in uniform, who screamed as they fell. He felt his penis brush against one of their schoolbags, and it was a miracle he avoided landing squarely on top of them. From the ground, he saw a Seven News crew stopped at the lights at the bottom of the mall. A cameraman was leaning out the window, a grin on his face, his camera pointed at Jamie.
Jamie scrambled to his feet, belatedly covering his crotch, and the schoolgirls screamed again. This would not look good on the news. Over his shoulder he saw the police closing in. Two more officers ran straight for him from directly ahead. He sucked in a deep breath and took off towards King George Square. The park was full of pigeons, tourists, commuters, students reading on the lawns. He ran through them, adrenaline still coursing through him and numbing the aches and pains. Numbing the repercussions. There would only be repercussions if he stopped running. And he wasn’t going to do that …
It ended with a handcuffed naked walk of shame through King George Square. A policewoman tossed him a towel to cover himself, a look of complete neutrality on her face. ‘You don’t understand,’ he’d screamed at them as they had tackled him to the ground. ‘The clowns … I had to … the clowns made me …’
In the interview room he’d been read the charges. Indecent exposure, disorderly conduct, assault (the schoolgirls), possible indecent assault (the schoolgirls), disrupting the peace, possession of illegal fireworks, perverting the course of justice. They said they would get back to him regarding an additional charge after they consulted federal police — there were new anti-terrorism laws which made bomb hoaxes punishable as genuine threats. Which meant Jamie could be, officially, a terrorist. That was the point Jamie went from feeling like crying to actually crying.
On top of all that was the matter of Steve’s possible murder, which he didn’t dare mention. He should tell them, he knew, but answering their questions was enough to deal with at the moment; he’d been struck by a terrible weariness after the adrenaline high of the streak and wanted nothing more than to crawl into a warm place and close his eyes.
It was midnight when the police let him go. Around then a new and more terrifying thought occurred to him: It might actually be, every bit of it, inside your own head. You might have imagined the entire thing, from the very first time you saw the clown on the road. If you’re really that crazy, guess what? You might also be responsible for those blood stains in Steve’s room. Maybe you did it in your sleep. Maybe you crept up there and hacked him apart. Maybe you’re the one who vandalised the house. You could be in deep, deep trouble, not just with the law. You’re in trouble here, inside your own head. You may never see daylight again.
To all this he could offer no protest as he made the slow march home. If by some miracle Steve were there, alive and well, maybe he could quietly check himself into an asylum and try to forget all this.
When he got home he saw a note lying on the seat- cushion bed. He stood in the doorway, staring at it, swaying a little on his feet. He stayed that way for nearly five minutes in which his heart seemed to stop beating. The entire city went quiet outside.
He went to his be
d and picked up the note. It read:
Congratulations.
Gonko, Pilo Family Circus.
In the clowns’ tent, Goshy had been making fluttering whistles like a lorikeet chirping. The sounds meant nothing especially, just an indication that some of his circuits were still on and running, that in his own way Goshy was still ticking.
In the crystal ball the clowns had watched the spectacle from the time Jamie painted himself to now, as he was being crash-tackled out front of City Hall. Two officers were holding him down, his legs thrashing. Through it all Doopy had been offering commentary, which amounted to: ‘Oh … gosh … what’s he? … where’s he? … gosh …’
Gonko’s mouth had turned on its axis — a smile, to the trained eye. As Jamie was led off, hands cuffed behind his back, a look of dawning mortification on his face, Doopy turned to Gonko and said: ‘Did he done do it okay, Gonko? Gonko, did he? Gonko, remember when I asked you if he done did it okay?’
Gonko’s eyes moved sideways in their sockets. ‘I think he did just fine.’
‘Yeah, that’s what Goshy thinks too, don’tcha, Goshy? Don’tcha?’
‘Oo.’
Gonko placed his palm back over the glass, like someone smothering a candle. ‘Beats climbing on the goddamn roof,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll give him that much.’
Goshy gave a toneless whistle. The clowns stood. For a couch, they’d been using a bound and gagged man. The man’s name was Steve, and he was out cold. ‘Give young JJ a couple of hours to stew, then we’ll go fetch him,’ said Gonko. ‘Ruf can send up a note when he comes to. And get this one,’ he poked the unconscious lump with his boot, ‘out of my sight.’
Jamie didn’t wake that night as hands gently lifted him from the floor; Gonko saw to that. Of all the weapons in the clown leader’s arsenal, chloroform was a little orthodox, but the stuff worked, and he never went kidnapping without it. He held a white handkerchief to Jamie’s sleeping face for six seconds then stuffed it back in his pocket.
Rufshod and Doopy were with him. They’d been there for the acquisition of Steve, too. The blood in Steve’s room had in fact been Rufshod’s, just spilled for effect. The three of them slid Jamie into the body bag they’d brought along. Gonko liked the idea of a man waking unexpectedly inside a body bag; his mouth slanted sideways as he zipped it up. The other two clowns picked up the bundle and hauled Jamie out to the road. A ute was parked beside the house, its motor running, the only sound on the moonlit street. They put the bag down on the tray. Doopy and Rufshod battled fiercely for the shotgun seat, their clown shoes scuffing the roadside. Doopy won. Rufshod jumped up on the tray with Jamie. Gonko sped off, swerving on the way to annihilate two stray cats. Doopy told him it wasn’t funny.
One kilometre away they pulled up next to a construction yard on which an apartment block was being built. It was from here Gonko had borrowed the ute. He jumped from the driver’s seat, opened the bonnet and pulled a hatchet from his pants. He gave the engine a few cleaves, just for the fuck of it, the metallic clang of his blows shooting out into the still night like gunshots. He pulled a birthday card from his pocket and wrote on it: Thanks for the loan, Bob. The owner of the ute was named Bob. Bob didn’t know Gonko and Gonko didn’t know Bob; the purpose of this exercise was to fuck with Bob’s head. Gonko placed the card on the dashboard, plucked a rose from his other pocket and set it down beside the card.
The three clowns climbed the fence, manoeuvring Jamie gently down with them. Doopy complained about his back, but Doopy was full of shit. The clowns headed for a portaloo in the corner of the yard. They entered, holding the body bag upright. It was a tight squeeze. In Gonko’s hand was a plastic card, which he held over the lock. A small red light flashed and a lever dropped from the ceiling. He yanked it to one side, and with a creak the floor descended like an elevator, for that’s just what it was. There were several in this city alone, thousands more across the world. Above them a platform slid across to replace the floor on which they now stood. The lift lurched violently. It was a very long descent.
Finally they stopped, not before Doopy let rip a fart plaguing the small space with a stink so foul everyone burst out coughing.
‘Nice one,’ said Gonko, eyes watering. Doopy apologised profusely, but Doopy was full of shit. The lift doors opened.
It was night time in the circus. Around them the silhouettes of the gypsies’ hunched shanties sat like rough cardboard cut-outs on dark paper. The Ferris wheel loomed above against the starless sky, like the hunched skeleton of some huge animal. Far away, something howled. The clowns went home, dragging their newest recruit by the feet.
Part 2
JJ the Clown
Into the house of mirrors goes a clown and his elf
Take a look in the mirror and see the clown in yourself
CAROUSEL
Chapter 6
The Show
JAMIE regained consciousness very slowly. A sense of claustrophobia had haunted his last hour or two of dreamless sleep. His mind tried to start as normal, booting up like a computer, but something was blocking the progressions of thought. In his mouth was a horrible dryness and the faint aftertaste of something chemical.
Something else did not feel right; he seemed awake, but everything was black. Gingerly he felt around his eye with a finger — it was open. There was a rustling sound when he moved his hand, like canvas. For a traumatic moment he was thrown into a flashback: a camping trip by the lake with his family, when he woke from a bad dream of a snake inside his tent, only to find a green tree snake really was slithering over his feet. With just a touch of panic he thrashed his arms and groaned.
There was the sound of footsteps right beside his head. Next came a ripping noise, very loud and very close to his face. Suddenly light poured into the small dark space, flaring painfully in his eyes, and the last thing he expected to see was right above him: Steve. ‘Jamie?’
‘Huh?’ was all Jamie could manage.
‘You’re here too?’ said Steve. ‘I thought I saw something move in there. Man, you gotta come see this. It’s a carnival or something. Get up. Come on!’
Jamie sat up and stared uncomprehendingly at the body bag he’d slept in. The black canvas lay open like a split cocoon. He blinked; it simply didn’t compute. He wiped sleep from the corner of his eyes and tried to remember what had happened before he slept. Lying down in a body bag was not on the list.
‘What the hell were you doing in there?’ Steve asked, as though he could possibly answer. ‘Ah, here it is.’ Steve picked up his jumper from the ground. ‘You’re lucky I found you, I only came back to get this. Come on. You gotta see this.’
Too much input too soon. Last night … he thought. Went to bed on the floor. Before that …? Cops. Watch house. Yeah … Caught streaking … And what next?
He peered around. They were inside what seemed to be a big lofty marquee. The floor was of trampled grass, battered with large misshapen shoe prints. There was a table in the corner with playing cards and empty bottles scattered over it. On the floor were dozens of boxes stuffed with trinkets and colourful rags. A suit of armour lay on its side, covered in obscene crayon graffiti of phalluses and misspelled swearwords. Tinted sunlight filtered through the high canvas walls, lending everything a slightly sick tinge of red.
Then it hit him: Steve was alive. He was right there, standing by the marquee entrance, sunlight pouring in around him. ‘Steve …?’ Jamie croaked.
Steve looked back at Jamie with a glint in his eye — his boyish face looked more boyish than normal, as though the pair of them were in their eighth or ninth Christmas morning.
‘Weren’t you …?’ said Jamie, shaking his head. ‘The clowns … I mean, I looked in your room and there was blood …’
Steve ignored him. ‘Will you hurry up, man? Take a look out here.’ He bounded through the tent flaps.
Jamie noticed for the first time the sound of a marching band playing carnival music, and the babble of voices from a crowd. He
went to the tent flaps, poked his head through, and the colours outside hit him like a splash of cold water in the face. It was all so bright he had to shut his eyes. When he opened them again he saw a crowd marching past, families, old people, parents, kids dressed in bright colours, babies in prams or in their mothers’ arms, balloons tied to wrists, floating in the air like leashed pets. There were tents and stalls set up like a miniature city, manned by olive-skinned gypsies hawking baubles. The crowd wandered in a procession through them, talking animatedly amongst themselves. Jamie gazed around for the source of the carnival music, but he could see no band; the sounds seemed to drift like the breeze, a natural extension of the colours and the smell of buttered popcorn in the air.
He stepped out of the marquee. From the look of things, he was the only one with no idea what the hell was going on. Steve beckoned impatiently.
Jamie rubbed his eyes. ‘Steve?’
‘Fuck ya, what?’
‘Are we …’ He’d been about to ask if they were dead. ‘Where are we?’
Steve grabbed his arm. ‘Will you come on? I heard something about a magic show over at that tent. Let’s go.’
Jamie let Steve drag him down the pathway. Over in the distance he saw a painted sign: FUNHOUSE. Beyond that, a banner he could barely make out was stretched across the top of a tall tent. It said: FREAK SHOW. They passed another giant marquee, on the side of which was painted MAIN STAGE. Back over his shoulder there was a wooden archway, and behind it many flashing lights and carnival sounds: bells ringing, mechanical rides starting up, screams and cries. He could see no sign, but guessed somewhere over there was one that said SIDESHOW ALLEY.
The Pilo Family Circus Page 5
